


Winter memories

by ginny0612



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:22:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21622918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginny0612/pseuds/ginny0612
Summary: An unusual snowstorm initiates a conversation wherein John learns of a distressing memory from Sherlock’s childhood.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33
Collections: Kat's Johnlock Xmas 2019





	Winter memories

**Author's Note:**

> For Kat’s Xmas Challenge  
> Prompt: Snow  
> Excited to write again, it’s been awhile!  
> And there really was a major snowstorm in ‘46-‘47 in London, according to Google.

As the snow continued to fall, Mrs. Hudson brought up some tea and biscuits for John and Sherlock. John could sense that she wanted to stay and chat, and so he offered her his chair.  
Sherlock appeared from the kitchen and was just opening his mouth to say something smart, when he noticed the biscuits and decided to behave, at least for the moment. London seemed to be on shutdown due to the snow, and he was not hopeful in receiving a case anytime soon, and this had him quite on edge and anxious.  
In his self induced fog, he heard, as if in a tunnel, Mrs. Hudson going on about the snow.  
“You know, I remember that winter of ‘46 as well as I remember yesterday! I was just 9, and my brothers and I played in the snow for days. Why, it was several feet of snow, as I remember....”

Sherlock shivered as he made his way to the window, telling himself it was just due to the chill in the air, nothing more, even though his subconscious told him there was a warmth radiating from the fireplace.

John noticed the change in Sherlock’s demeanor. Only a few minutes before they had been having an argument in the kitchen. Light banter, really, something about one of Sherlock’s experiments going awry. Nothing unlike any other day at Baker Street.

Before John can comment, Sherlock has grabbed his violin and begun to play very loudly and very erratically. His gaze has come to rest on Mrs. Hudson, and even without words John knows Sherlock would prefer that she leave. He’s unsure what’s happened in the last few minutes to provoke such a reaction, but knows it’s for the best if he makes an excuse before Sherlock says something rude to their landlady.

“Mrs. Hudson, you know, it’s getting a little late and I really should call some of my patients and check on them. It’s unlikely anyone is making it to the surgery anytime soon.” As he speaks he gently nudges her toward the door. She turns to say goodbye to Sherlock but he has turned back to the window, playing now a melancholy tune.

The moment she steps out the door, Sherlock collapses into his chair, slouched shoulders, legs stretched out, fingers drumming on the arms. He has a far away look, but John knows he isn’t high, and he’s also not in his mind palace. It’s that in between place, that real life space that Sherlock still finds himself uncomfortable in, even after all these years of sharing so much. John knows he must tread lightly. Or, as he’s learned, not tread at all. Silence from John allows Sherlock to determine the direction of the conversation, if there’s going to be one at all.

After several minutes of watching Sherlock continue to drum his fingers, John decides conversation isn’t in the cards. He rises to grab a biscuit and almost pulls back as Sherlock grabs his wrist, he’s so startled. He sees a look in his best friend’s eyes he hasn’t seen before, and he’s equally intrigued and for some reason, sad.  
He’s about to check Sherlock for a fever when Sherlock decides to speak.

“I don’t like snow, John.”

John is taken aback. Not because of the words, but because he notices tears in Sherlock’s eyes.  
What in the world has caused such as this?  
John instinctively takes Sherlock’s hands in his own, and allows him to continue at his own pace. He’s worried as a friend, and as a doctor.  
Sherlock seems to relax a slight bit. He continues in the softest voice John has ever heard, one that he didn’t know existed in this bigger than life man.

“You want to ask me why. So ask, John.”

In a whisper, “why?”

“Mycroft and his bribes.”

John gave Sherlock a confused look. Mycroft used bribes daily. Sherlock used his brother for this very reason. What did this have to do with snow, and tears, and this conversation?  
Sherlock saw John’s confusion and provided the needed context.

“When we were kids, John. Mycroft would bribe other kids with anything he could think of at my expense. I swear he saved his money to use to humiliate me. He’d pay them or bribe them if needed to throw snowballs at me all the way home from school. Sometimes a half dozen of them would follow me the entire way. No lasting injuries, with snowballs, so mum never even knew.  
And Mycroft never had to throw the first one, with all of his cronies doing the dirty work. God! He still does the same today! I guess bribery serves him well.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues.  
“You know, I never would have known he was behind it all except I began to observe him almost constantly and made my deductions. I guess you could say it’s where my observational skills began.  
Anyway,” a long sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips, “I guess I should thank him for that, someday. To this day, I don’t think he knows that I know.”

After this startling revelation to John, Sherlock immediately transforms back to himself. He puts his violin away and sips his tea. It’s almost as if nothing transpired out of the ordinary.

But John can’t let it go.

Two days later, almost a foot of snow lays outside the door of 221B. The roads have been cleared and Sherlock is awaiting a visit from a would be client. John has left to run some errands before work. Mrs. Hudson arrives shortly after John leaves. The detective knows she deserves an apology, and he attempts to stammer one into existence....apologizing is not his strong suit.  
But the housekeeper dismisses his attempt with a wave of her hand.

“No worries, dear. Just enjoy this beautiful winter view with me, and all will be forgiven.”  
She has led him over to the window before Sherlock can retract.  
Suddenly there’s a high pitched squeal, a muffled ‘oomph’, and a thud as a stray snowball hits the glass. Sherlock peers out, at the urging of Mrs. Hudson, as well as to satisfy his own curiosity.  
He deduces that the squeal came from Molly Hooper, who is handing snowballs back and forth between John and Detective Inspector Greg  
Lestrade. And being bombarded with this high velocity of pitches, is none other than Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock stares, stupefied, at this show of camaraderie and friendship. He almost feels sorry for Mycroft, but that is fleeting. Mycroft will be fine. Wet, humiliated, but fine.  
And that was the day Sherlock made peace with the snow. 

“

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was enjoyable. Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
